Switch
by Colt-and-Crossbow
Summary: It's unheard of, what they have. Daring—forbidden, even. Designer button-up discarded, slicked-back hair mussed, it's only them and the backseat of whosever's car they're in that night. (1950's Rickyl AU)


The street's dark in front of him, yellow traffic lines glowing neon in the streetlamps' half-light before darkness submerges them. The asphalt underfoot feels sticky from the heat, just beginning to cool off after constant exposure to the sun, his tattered construction boots dragging with every step he takes. A few daring fireflies defy the darkness and glow before his nose, steering clear of the bobbing cherry of a smoking cigarette sitting between his lips.

Apart from the occasional chirp of a cricket, it's quiet.

Daryl runs a hand over his slicked-back hair, blowing the straight strands obstinately swinging before his face back from his forehead. Overhead, the dying sun silhouettes a forested mountainside, the brilliant orange emanation oozing into streaks of dark blues and deep purples, drawn messily as if by a wayward artist's brush. A star begins to shimmer in the east, amid the furthermost cloak of midnight blue, twinkling and stark against its dusky background, and Daryl pauses for just a moment to wait for more to join it.

One hand drops to pull his cigarette from his mouth, his lips releasing a long stream of smoke in its absence. The fingers of his other hand rest curled firmly around the handle of his switchblade, thumb hovering over the small button; one twitchy finger has the power to expend the blade deep into a man's ribs.

Or Daryl's thigh, if he isn't careful.

It's—to say the least—unadvised, walking home alone. He's toeing the boundary even taking the long way around, but it'd been unavoidable. Daryl told his friends with faux confidence that Merle was coming to pick him up. Even the promise of a safe car and laughing friends and soda slopping over the sides of glass bottles hadn't been enough to risk his brother's rage if Daryl wasn't there waiting for him. Still, whether or not Merle would even show up was just another big _if_. He still remembers the number of times he walked home alone from elementary school; he'd only been five years old when he learned never to go anywhere without looking over your shoulder. Just like back then, Merle had left him hanging, and he almost reluctantly casts a glance behind him.

Daryl had acted unconcerned in the face of his friends' worries; he'd offered them smiles and jokes and a nonchalant wave of his hand telling them to _go on, I'll be fine. _It's much easier to be brave in the cold light of day, he finds. Nighttime's a whole other story.

Daryl nearly jumps out of his skin when white light inundates the road around him, his shadow a black blob lengthening grotesquely on the pavement. He barely manages to launch himself onto the grass of someone's lawn before the car hits him, heart hammering something like two hundred beats a minute.

"Watch out, Greaser!" a jeering voice screams from the open car window, a chorus of laughter and music pumping out in waves along with it. "Wouldn't wanna hit ya!"

Daryl's middle finger flicks up after them before he can even think about it, and, with his heart pounding the way it is against his ribs, he can't help but holler, "Fuck you!"—loud enough where he knows they'll hear. His hand balls into a fist in his pocket, fingers tightening around his knife as he watches the car disappear, the track of its taillights burned in an arc against his retinas. Daryl ducks his head, a steady stream of cusses escaping his lips, and continues walking until the unmistakable sound of burning rubber pierces the air. Two round headlights like glaring eyes pop up over the hill, and there's a clear bulls-eye painted in red over Daryl's chest.

It's then that he starts to run, leather jacket sailing out behind him like black wings. He doesn't know or care whose lawn he's trespassing on; the only thing he can focus on is getting as far away as possible from the car still following him, its lights throwing him in the spotlight every time he sprints in the spaces between houses.

The stitch tugging on his side tells him he's been running for several minutes, but Daryl's no closer to shaking his shadow, fear tearing through him every time they rev the engine of their expensive car. Meanwhile, he's berating himself internally the whole time—how often had Merle ended up in the hospital for acting just like he had?

His switchblade's out of his pocket now, still sheathed, but he knows that can, and _will_, change in the blink of an eye. Daryl doesn't know how many people are in the car, night's cloak making it too dark to see even without the tinted windows of his pursuer's parents' car. He streaks diagonally through someone's yard, vaulting himself over a wrought iron gate. He's well into Soc territory, now; the smell of freshly cut grass fills his nose, big, dimly lit picture windows casting squares of light that Daryl firmly avoids onto the lawn. He jumps over another gate before he sees the familiar chain-link fence of the park, knowing it's shared territory. Relief swells in his throat; if anywhere's safe, it's there.

Daryl's boots scrabble at the fence, the metal slick with dew, as he hops it. It sways underneath his weight, convex where his hands grip it near the top, but he's quick and slight and he's on the other side in seconds. His heart beats a rapid tattoo against the back of his throat as he darts to hide behind a bush, branches and leaves scratching at his face and a broken section of the fence digging into his back. Fingers tremble where they're curled around the handle of his switch as that distinctive white light floods the park, and, suddenly, Daryl's made of stone.

Car doors slam one after another. Daryl counts four, loud as gunshots in the air trembling with tension. Raucous laughter accompanied by the harmony of glass breaking on the street floats through the air, and he hears them hop the fence just as he had, muffled curses and prolonged rattling of chain links telling him that they achieved the feat nowhere near as easily as he did. Panic hot and consuming slips down his throat and into his stomach as he hears five pairs of feet fall heavily onto the ground, the heft of his knife no longer feeling reassuring in his hand. Daryl holds his breath for all the good it'll do, praying they're too drunk to find him. It's a small park; it won't take long to unearth his hiding spot if they decide to search it.

"Spread out!" the same voice that had mocked him on the street yells out, half serious and half a drunken slur. "We're findin' ourselves a rat, boys!"

A chorus of enthusiastic shouts meets his words, and Daryl hears them split up, fingers numb with terror despite the soupy, lukewarm summer night. His eyes float skyward in a silent prayer, zeroing in on the stars dusting the heavens. He suddenly wishes in a moment of fruitless malice that he hadn't stopped for that lone star.

Daryl's ears prick when he hears a branch snap a few feet away from him, head jerking downward in terror. Someone's close, they're going to find him—

He wastes no time leaping out from his hiding place, delivering a solid punch to the approaching boy's jaw. The Soc staggers back, hand flying up to nurse his jaw, and nothing other than a surprised shout leaves his lips—no warning call, no triumphant _here he is! _Daryl doesn't stick around to see if that'll change. The kid's buddies already pinpointed his location thanks to his pansy yelp, and he can hear their heavy footfalls gaining on him—and fast.

He's halfway over the fence before two pairs of hands grip the back of his jacket, ripping its worn seams and tugging him back down to the ground. Daryl's descent through empty space is short, but he hits the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs as he lies spread-eagled in the wet grass. Body still vibrating from the impact, he manages to haul himself up to his feet, thumb finally pressing the button on the side of his blade. Daryl brandishes it at his attackers, trying hard not to notice the way identical knives wink up at him from their hands.

Before he even registers what's happening, the one he assumes is the ringleader plunges his arm forward and twists the switchblade out of his hand, the white noise in his ears nearly drowning out the dull thud it makes as it falls onto the grass. Effectively disarmed, Daryl's no longer a threat; the boy, biggest and burliest out of the group, tucks his knife away, the rest of his boys following in suit.

Daryl notices that one boy, hovering back a bit, never had one out to begin with.

They're circled around him, a wall of jerseys and dress shirts and leering smiles that make Daryl's blood run cold. He can just see the ringleader in the light from the nearest streetlamp. Daryl recognizes him—his thick black hair, his dark eyes, a nose squashed by one fight too many. He almost looks stupid in the nice button-up he's got on, open over a white tank top; Daryl's more used to seeing him in his football uniform. But that's how Socs dress, and, expectedly, Daryl finds the apparel mimicked on the four other boys sneering at him as his eyes dart about them in panic. Well, three—the boy who hadn't had his knife out just looks hesitant, eyes conflicted beneath wayward curls as they flicker to the pack leader and back to Daryl again. It's the type of expression Merle would beat the shit out of someone for. He notices with a jolt that the kid's nursing a bruised jaw, courtesy of Daryl's fist.

"What'cha doin' in our territory, Greaser?" the ringleader—Daryl suddenly remembers his name, Walsh—asks him, smile threatening on his lips. In the shadows, it almost looks like a snarl.

"Nothin'," Daryl, eyes drifting back to the leader, answers; he's outnumbered and weaponless. "Walkin' home."

Laughter bubbles up around him, and Daryl feels his face flush hot despite himself.

"Can ya tell me why a pigsty would be anywhere near _us_?" Walsh demands, folding his arms over his chest. An amused murmur floats up from the gang again, and gooseflesh erupts over Daryl's arms when he hears the sound of knuckles popping.

"Dunno," Daryl answers in a sickening haze of rage, "why don'cha ask yer ma?"

He feels a savage sort of triumph as the boys fall into shocked silence, all of them looking at Walsh, who rubs the back of his head irritably. For some reason, Daryl isn't expecting the first punch when it lands.

His face explodes into agony, and he feels the skin part underneath Walsh's knuckles, warm, hot blood trickling down his face. Daryl reels away from the boy, falling directly into the ranks of the pack surrounding him. They push him back into the center of the circle their bodies created, and Daryl straightens his back, stealing himself against the pain in his face. He holds his head up high, meeting Walsh's gaze straight on. He's been through a lot worse.

"Hold him," Walsh commands, nursing his hand. He's glaring pure hatred into Daryl, eyes black in the darkness glittering, and Daryl swallows down his fear long enough to glare right back.

Arms snake around him from behind, elbows tucked beneath his armpits and hauling him back. Daryl thrashes in his captor's grip, gasping and wincing when the arms tighten and threaten to pop his shoulders right out of their Sockets. He goes limp, but not before spitting on the ground at Walsh's feet. The ringleader smirks before drawing back his fist with exaggerated slowness. The anticipation grows by the second, Daryl staring warily at the raised fist, until Walsh snaps the tension and punches the other side of Daryl's face, skin breaking this time over his brow. He hits him again, this time in the stomach, Daryl's knees buckling. The arms looped underneath him are the only thing keeping him upright.

By the time Walsh has his fill, Daryl's sagging into the boy behind him, gasping for breath, blood falling into his eyes, his face feeling unrecognizable and swollen even to the air's touch.

"Anyone else?" Walsh asks, holding his hand out graciously toward Daryl, looking to the timid boy standing at his right. "How 'bout you, Rick?"

"C'mon, man, he can hardly stand up," Rick replies, laughing, and Daryl wonders if he's imagining how forced it sounds. The others join in, the sound distant and echoing in Daryl's ears. "Let 'im alone, will ya?"

Another Soc scoffs. "If Grimes won't take a hit, I will." He steps forward, and Daryl looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, just registering his appearance—dark, waving hair, smallish, light eyes that could have been either blue or green, heavy jaw jutting out aggressively.

Daryl's head snaps to the side when the Soc finally punches him, baring too-big teeth crowded in his mouth. He works his jaw from side to side, almost positive the last punch had broken it, and there's very little relief when he feels nothing amiss but the fiery pain that's become his entire face. He endures one more punch, slumped passively, before the boy backs off, massaging the bloodied knuckles of his fist. Daryl doesn't bother looking up to see whose turn it is next.

But Walsh must have said something, because, suddenly, the arms supporting him disappear, letting him crumple to the ground, half conscious. He instinctively turns over onto his side, panicking as he chokes on the coppery taste of blood dripping into his mouth and down his nose. Daryl coughs raggedly onto the ground beside him, wheezing, and the blood that sprays from his mouth's black where it lands on the grass gently waving in an absent breeze.

The reprieve he's granted is short, less than five seconds before a solid kick to his stomach knocks the air from his lungs. Hands previously nursing his bruised gut instinctively fly up to protect his head as more blows rain down on his body. Each shoe makes its imprint on his prone form, and he can only be glad they're not steel-toed.

With a final kick harsher than its predecessors, Daryl's left alone to curl up on the ground, nothing but a point of sheer agony existing in blankness, hacking up blood and wrapping his arms around his bruised ribs. He manages to see his knife glittering uselessly on the ground through the swollen slits his eyes no doubt became beneath Walsh's and the other asshole's fists. Part of him wants to reach out and take it, but he's hurting too much. Even the soothing, cool press of grass against his face diminishes slightly as his blood soaks into it, sticky and cracking all over his face.

It's only because he's alone that he lets a heaving, racking sob claw its way out of him, his ribs screaming in protest at the unwelcome expansion of his chest. He doesn't know how he's going to get home; he doesn't think he can even get _up. _Tears burn hot and salty at the cut on his cheekbone, and Daryl gasps for air short and desperate, his ribs making a full breath off-limits.

Daryl's head stops spinning long enough to hear a voice floating toward him, and he wonders how long it's been there, if they'd heard him crying. He flushes with embarrassment, but there's nothing to stop more tears from trickling down his face.

"Nah, I'm tellin' ya, go on without me," the voice insists, meek. "I jus' wanna smoke, ya know yer dad's gonna kill ya if you ain't home."

"That Greaser's friends might show up," Walsh's voice replies, worried, controlling, and Daryl's body seizes up at the sound.

"They won't find me," the other boy reassures. "Go on, git. My house ain't far from here."

Daryl hears the distinct flick of a lighter's flame roaring to life, not far from where he lies. He twitches, the urge to run like a live wire in his body, but he's still aching too much to even consider movement—stomach a mess of agony, face a swollen, bleeding mess. He's not dumb enough to even try to get up, knowing the ground would come up to meet him far too fast.

But something inside him gives way to pure terror when he hears footsteps approaching him, eyes rising instinctively to focus on the red glow of a lit cigarette's end getting nearer and nearer. The only times Daryl's felt so helpless were after his father, stumbling drunk, finally finished with him, more often leaving him far worse than he is now. Still, he aches all over, and the uncertainty and fear that fills him as the boy comes close enough to crouch beside him paralyzes him. Daryl squeezes his eyes shut, unable to face what's coming his way next, mind floating in blackness.

"Hey," the boy says softly, reaching out as if to touch him.

Daryl snarls weakly and tries to move away, and, at the same time, his hand shoots out despite the pain to grab his discarded switchblade. But the agony tearing through his side stops him midway, and he curls tighter in on himself, too mortified to even register the whimper-like sounds that leave him. Angry, humiliated tears prick at his eyes, and he blinks them back furiously.

"Easy, man. My name's Rick, all right? I ain't gonna hurt'cha. Promise." The boy, Rick, reaches down to pick up his switchblade, pressing it into Daryl's outstretched hand as a peace offering. "See?"

Daryl glares daggers at him, mind spinning with confusion—though, it might be from Walsh's punches, too. He curls his hand into a fist around the knife's hilt, feeling the dull base of the blade dig deep into his palm. In the dim light, he recognizes the boy who refused to hit him—the boy who never pulled a knife on him in the first place, who hadn't tipped his friends off to Daryl's location even after Daryl decked him. He can even see the livid bruise blooming in the shadow of his jaw as he takes a drag from his cigarette, tilting his chin up to avoid blowing smoke into Daryl's face. It's more courtesy than he should be allowed.

"The fuck you want?" Daryl spits, blood accompanying the words. "Didn't wan' yer friends watchin' when ya took yer own licks? That it, jackass?"

"Nah," Rick says, holding his hands up in surrender, cigarette illuminating the fingertips of one hand. "I thought you. . . When ya didn' get up. . ." His voice trails off, finishing lamely, "Shane's a real asshole."

Daryl feels his glare slip away as his eyes widen, staring incredulously at the boy kneeling in front of him. "Why would ya care?" he asks, almost amazed.

Rick shrugs noncommittally, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, like the prospect of his buddy having murdered someone's no big deal. Daryl feels hostility leak back into him; there has to be an ulterior motive. There _has _to be. He's tired of nothing making sense—especially when he's certain by now that he can't blame it on his most likely concussed head.

"Why don't'cha git, Soc?" Daryl growls, arms still wrapped tightly around his aching middle. "If all you're doin' is comin' ta make sure yer best friend ain't killed no one? I ain't dead, so you can go on an' git!"

"I jus' wanna help," Rick bursts out angrily, a confession of sorts, reaching a hand out to him again.

Snarling, Daryl pulls back from the ill-found touch, arm swinging up to level the tip of his switchblade on Rick's throat. "Git," he warns once more, voice soft and deadly, "if ya know what's good fer you."

Blue eyes blaze indignantly through the darkness for a moment, brow creased above them, before they shift away from Daryl's face. "Whatever," Rick replies coolly, scoffing. He gets to his feet and brushes the grass clinging to the knees of his pants away. "Guess I'll see ya around, _Greaser_."

He throws him one more contemptuous look over his shoulder before walking away, head thrown back confidently, neat, dark curls licking at the nape of his neck. Daryl manages to raise his head slightly to watch him hop the fence and leave, tension seeping out of him like water down a drain. He allows himself to sink fully to the ground again with a sigh when he hears the boy's cross laughter, followed by the murmur of conversation from the other boys. Walsh had evidently waited for him despite Rick's protests, and a halfhearted argument drifts over to him, garbled in his ringing ears. Clearly, the ringleader hadn't seen what his friend was up to.

Car doors closing brings an abrupt end to the conversation he'd been eavesdropping on, though he hadn't made much sense of it to begin with. The car's headlights bathe the park once more in blinding light, sending a sharp spike of pain through Daryl's aching head. When it fades away, he eases back into the grass, figuring it isn't all that uncomfortable. Granted, he supposes he doesn't have much of a choice as his vision gives way to blackness even darker than the night surrounding him.

Half a mile away, Rick Grimes stares, perturbed, at the blood on his best friend's knuckles where his hand rests on his inner thigh. The image of the battered face belonging to a boy whose name he doesn't even know pushes itself to the front of his mind every time he meets those lust-filled, black eyes. Car pulled in front of his house, Rick Grimes swallows down the revulsion burning like bile at his throat when Shane kisses him, lips tasting of alcohol and little else, and reaches across him to open the passenger door.

But there in the park, Daryl, unconcerned, closes his eyes until morning.


End file.
